by S. R. White
Which meant every minute she spent on this case made the Day more desperate.
Chapter 28
Rainer was filling in. One of the other uniforms was supposed to ride out to the old Whittler farm for Mike to see if they could turn up anything useful. But then a call to a four-car pile-up on the freeway took almost everyone’s attention. Lucy had basically instructed Rainer to come here, and he’d surprised himself by immediately doing so, as if she were his boss. Though, reflecting on it during the drive over, it wasn’t such a surprise. Lucy said stuff, and he did it. They all did.
The farm was five kilometres from Carlton, up on a hillside of open pasture with several pockets of Tupelo trees which fizzled burnt orange as autumn died. Rainer presumed the farm had once been livestock – sheep, probably – but it was now an equestrian centre. Lucy had pulled the website and suggested it fostered some regional champions and Olympic hopefuls, so it was no hick operation. Freshly painted white fencing ringed the property and sectioned off the driveway and buildings. A line of rich volcanic soil spooled over the ridge and away – presumably the training track for stamina work.
The approach road was turning grey in a gauzy late afternoon, early tendrils of mist rising from a nearby copse that held a small brook. The tarmac ended by a farmhouse which looked carefully restored: right down to the wagon-wheel propped up against the front and the requisite wheelbarrow-as-flowerbed by the entrance. To the right, a gravel path led to the stables, behind which was a large metal shed that Rainer presumed was for indoor work, or dressage, or whatever. To the left, a wooden cabin served as an office.
Rainer didn’t like horses. They were too big. His girlfriend had a niece who rode and he’d occasionally driven the kid to events. Horses were too large, made random noises, almost constantly changed their foot position in a way that caught him off guard, and stared with those large, liquid eyes.
He wiped his shoes on a doormat that squelched with disinfectant. The cabin had four desks, all swamped with badly filed paperwork. He or Dana would make short work of tidying this to a proper standard; Lucy or Mike would simply never allow it to happen. He could feel his fingers twitch. A brunette with glasses noticed him and nudged a colleague. The middle-aged man sauntered across with the air of someone who’d been there for years.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Rainer Holt, police. Is the owner of the centre around, please?’
‘You’re looking at him, son. Dan Mathers. Co-owner, I should say. My better half owns the other half.’ Mathers offered a hearty country-welcome handshake. ‘Police, you say? Is something wrong?’
‘Oh, no, nothing like that. Is there someplace we could talk?’
Mathers strolled around the desk. ‘Well, I’m going back to our cottage to get some papers. We could talk on the journey.’ He looked down and grinned. ‘Don’t worry – gravel path all the way. That shoeshine isn’t in danger.’
They re-crossed the courtyard. The clop of distant hooves punctuated birdsong; Rainer noticed some fading saplings near the shed.
‘You bought this place from the Whittlers?’
‘Ah, well, Jeb Whittler. Yeah, his parents died before. I think the place was too much for him on his own, and anyway, he had some construction business that needed investment. Yeah, a while ago now.’
Rainer did a 360, certain that Mathers was the type who responded to flattery. ‘It wasn’t in this condition, though? It all looks immaculate.’
‘Thank you. Number of staff here, and how much we pay ’em, bloody well should look perfect. Nah, it was a mess,’ Mathers continued. ‘The main house there? Just about habitable. We lived there while we knocked down the old barns, built the stable complex and the dressage arena.’
He pointed to the large metal shed and Rainer wondered if Jeb had been involved in its construction.
‘That doubles as riding space when it’s too wet or hot outside. At that point, it was day-trippers only, but the big money is in residential. So we built this little cottage over here for ourselves and converted the main house into a bed-and-breakfast arrangement. Customers like being in and around the horses the whole time. And it keeps the insurance down if the owners live on site.’
‘I see. And you’ve produced champions, I read?’
‘Ooh, more Marlene’s department than mine. She’s the horse whisperer; I’m the accounts whisperer.’ They crossed a cute little bridge over a brook, the smell of freshly mown grass stronger here. ‘That’s where she is today – looking at some potential new horses up past Earlville. Yeah, we’ve had a couple of regional champions. Nearly had an Olympian – Suzanne Doyle. Got that close. Would have made it next Olympics, but she had to give it up. So yeah, pretty good.’
They stopped near a picnic bench beside the cottage. The owners’ home was built of the same stone as the main house: Rainer guessed they’d re-used the stone from demolishing the old barns. The cottage already had creepers winding to the first floor. He could see the fence to one side and the road beyond, flashes of colour through the branches as cars whipped past. Dan Mathers seemed reluctant to show him inside, so they managed an awkward shuffle to the bench.
‘So, Dan, I’m here to learn as much as I can about the Whittlers, and about the farm as you inherited it.’ Rainer put his forearms on the table: the wood felt rough and unfinished. ‘Did you meet Jeb’s parents at any point?’
‘Nah, they were dead before we even moved to the area. Car crash, as I understand. No, we had to get out of the city and stretch, you know? It was only Jeb by then. We asked around the neighbours before we bought, though. As you do. They thought the Whittlers were creepy. All of them, mind, the kids included. Quiet, closed in; wore old-fashioned clothes.’ Mathers glanced back towards the main house. ‘The parents preached Bible a lot; I know that much. When we moved in Jeb had pretty much taken his own personal stuff and scarpered. If you’d told me he ran off the morning we arrived, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I mean, everything else was left as it was – like a ghost ship, or something. Bibles everywhere, oodles of crosses, lots of religious tracts on the bookshelves. It was weird. We offered it all to the local church – come and take it away. They said no. I think there was plenty of friction between the Whittlers and that church. We didn’t want to get into all that so we threw it all out.’
It interested Rainer that Jeb appeared to have moved suddenly, as though there was some final-second imperative to being gone. Presumably the legals of the move would have taken weeks. Jeb could have sorted out both his stuff, and his parents’, while the contracts were going through. He had been clinging on, seemingly reluctant to actually let go. Or he’d been doing something specific, which mattered and couldn’t be interrupted, up to the last minute.
‘You didn’t keep any of it?’
‘Sorry, son. Never thought the police would come looking for it years later. Why, do you need it?’
‘Oh, it’s an ongoing case: it would have been background, mainly. So you moved in after Jeb moved out. Ever see him again?’
‘He still lives in Carlton. We used to wave if we saw each other in town, but nothing more than that.’ Mathers stopped, but cut across Rainer’s next question. ‘Oh, wait.’
‘What?’
‘I did see him. Just a . . . what, a few weeks ago. Where was that? Where?’ Mathers patted his pockets, as though an answer were there. ‘Lemme think for a second. I had the car, not the ute, so it must have been . . . a Tuesday. Definitely a Tuesday. I saw him out at that store – Jensen’s Store, on the Derby Road.’
Rainer tried to hide the jolt.
‘You saw him? Definitely Jeb? And definitely there?’
‘Oh yeah, he hasn’t changed much: maybe a bit paunchier than I remember. When you look like that, you kinda stand out. Big guy, bald, big shoulders. Yeah, it was him.’ A sudden breeze caught Mathers’ hair and shifted all of it sideways two centimetres. He slid the piece back into place with insouciance. ‘Jeb was talking to the owner – I know that guy fro
m the local business club, here in town. Uh . . . Lou. Yup. Lou Cassavette. Yeah, two peas in a pod, those.’
It was better than Rainer could have anticipated. A link – once removed – between Nathan Whittler and the victim.
‘What were they talking about?’
‘Oh, I only saw them in passing. I’d stopped for a long black and I was on my way out and back home; they were standing outside and yacking. I didn’t catch what about. Is that important?’
Yeah, thought Rainer. It really is.
‘Ever see them together before?’
Mathers became a little more cautious.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m interested, Mr Mathers. Have you ever seen Jeb Whittler and Lou Cassavette together at any time?’
Mathers’ eyes narrowed. It didn’t strike Rainer that Mathers was dissembling; more that he’d suddenly realised he was sitting on a nugget of social gold. Mathers would bore his wife to death about it this evening, Rainer had no doubt. Without meeting Marlene, Rainer already felt a little sorry for her.
‘Not that I recall. Both in the local business club, though. Possible they met there at some point. Can’t say as I’ve noticed.’
‘So, after you moved in, Mr Mathers, anything unusual happen?’
‘How d’you mean, unusual?’
‘Out of the ordinary?’ Rainer leaned forward again. ‘Find anything on the property that shouldn’t be there; anyone visit that seemed out of place – that kind of thing?’
‘Nope.’ Mathers looked at his hands. ‘You got me a little nervous now, son.’
‘Oh, it’s ancient history we’re covering. Like I say, background.’ Rainer gave his most reassuring smile. ‘Nothing unusual after the sale?’
‘Nope, we just moved in and started cleari— Wait, no, there was one thing.’ Mathers prodded the air between them with one finger. ‘We reported it to the cops as well. Yeah. Damn, I haven’t thought about that in years. Spooked Marlene, I can tell you.’
‘Oh?’
‘So, a few days after we bought, we came over to take some measurements for the stables. Drainage trenches – real glamorous. As we arrive, there’s a car coming down the driveway towards us. We pull over, thinking they’re going to stop and talk, but no, she drives straight past. Never even looks. Woman, twenties, maybe thirty – pretty. Well, we go on up to the property, but there’s no sign of breaking in; nothing’s missing. Anyways, we report it to the cops in case there’s something we didn’t notice and we need to claim insurance.’
‘Did they ever get back to you?’
‘They did, they certainly did. That’s how come I remember it at all, really. It amazed us, to be honest. No offence, but where we were from, in the city, they wouldn’t have given a rat’s behind about that kind of thing. But yeah, they tracked her down in a day or so. I’d got some of the number plate and it was a blue VW Beetle, so I guess they found her from that. Apparently, she was an old buddy of Jeb’s; didn’t know he’d moved. No biggie. But we were sure impressed by your colleagues.’
Rainer spread his hands, as if that kind of anecdote were par for the course. ‘Reassure and Protect. We do exactly what it says on the tin.’
Chapter 29
‘Mr Whittler.’
‘Detective Russo.’
They’d played out the start of an interview five times already and it had an easy, comfortable cadence around it. Once again, Dana swept the formidably tidy tower of detritus into a bag she’d brought along. This time, her synapses fizzed with the connection between this neatness and the choice of knife. Physical proximity and tangibility of his sense of order supported her conviction that they were correct about him choosing the weapon.
She set a fresh water bottle before Nathan and received an almost imperceptible tilt of the head in acknowledgement. Once more, she tied a trucker’s hitch in front of him with the string. This time, it worked.
‘Is that a trucker’s hitch you’ve just done, Detective?’
‘It is indeed, Mr Whittler. Always fastens tight, zero slippage.’ Her voice juddered noticeably as she said it. She had absolutely no intention of discussing how she knew about knots.
‘Good choice. I took a book into the cave with me. Very useful: not only knots, but fastenings and other woodcraft.’
Dana put the bag down carefully by her foot. She was surprised by his relative chattiness. As if he’d reached some kind of accommodation with himself about how much he was prepared to share.
‘I saw the clothes line you rigged up, Mr Whittler. Ingenious, to use the flysheet.’
‘I needed to dry clothes in wet weather, and out of sight. Especially summer – the humidity next to the water was terrible. I had to have clothes drying all day and night to get them wearable. No breeze inside the cave, you see.’
Dana opened her file and circled some Pitman squiggles. ‘I’d like to go back to 2004, if I may, Mr Whittler.’
The mood sharpened and cooled. ‘Why, Detective?’
She paused, wanting to frame it exactly right. His explanation for leaving home might hint at motive for killing Cassavette, though she couldn’t currently imagine how. At the very least, she needed to understand what kind of person he was becoming at that point: her perception was that the following fifteen years in a cave had merely refined that person.
‘We need to build up a picture of why you left home. It’s the reason you were in the cave, which in turn is the reason you were in Jensen’s Store this morning.’
‘I see.’ Nathan’s tone was determinedly neutral.
‘Did you enjoy working at Pringle’s?’
‘Pringle’s?’ He seemed surprised she’d mentioned it. Perhaps that meant his employment was irrelevant to why he had left. Maybe he compartmentalised to such a degree that he didn’t associate where he worked with leaving town.
‘Yes, I suppose I did enjoy it, in a strange way. Mr Pringle was very kind to me. I’ve thought back at various times and realised I probably wasn’t very good at my job. His other apprentices seemed to catch up and race ahead of me, somehow.’ Nathan rubbed his palms together as he stared at the floor. ‘I was diligent, but I don’t think I was particularly good. Mr Pringle seemed to put up with that.’
Nathan had, she concluded, enough self-awareness to know exactly what Pringle had thought of him. It also tallied with Rainer’s earlier interview. ‘And he left you to it?’
‘Yes, he did. I think he understood that was how I preferred it. My workstation was in a corner, tucked out of sight. None of the customers ever came down there. I could go a few hours without seeing anyone.’
It was out of her mouth before she realised how flippant she sounded. ‘That was useful training.’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so. Although I didn’t realise at the time, of course. I know the money was barely above minimum wage, but . . .’ He shrugged and trailed off.
‘Barely above minimum?’ Rainer hadn’t caught that titbit.
‘Yes. I was on minimum originally. But that last year, Mr Pringle bumped it up by about ten per cent more than the award. I never told my family, obviously.’
The conversation was starting to steer the way she wanted. There was something about this family: some undercurrent.
‘Why not?’
‘I had to hand over ninety per cent to the family pot. We all did.’ Nathan took a slow swig. Dana sensed he was trying to veer away from a particular road, hoping she wouldn’t notice the junction. ‘I needed the extra money for the camping equipment I was buying. I carried on paying the same amount into the family pot, and it didn’t seem to occur to anyone to ask why I hadn’t received a pay rise. One of the few benefits of low expectations, I suppose.’
On the one hand, he’d confirmed he was gradually building up the means of leaving – the equipment, the wherewithal – which sounded like long-term planning. Yet she was more convinced than ever that the precipitating incident they were all chasing lay inside the Whittler household. They couldn’t interview the par
ents; Mike had talked to Jeb relatively briefly so far. She wanted to soften Nathan up a little.
‘My colleague spoke to Mr Pringle earlier today. He seemed very nice. He was very happy to know that you’re safe and well. Very happy.’
Nathan frowned. ‘Oh, really? Oh, I hadn’t . . . oh.’
‘That surprises you?’
‘Not . . . well, I hadn’t thought he would think of me at all, to be honest. It’s, well.’
Nathan dry-washed hand on hand and frowned again. He reached for the water bottle and gripped it tight. It wasn’t computing for Nathan, this new data. Dana saw what that information did: the very notion that someone was thinking of him now, had him in their mind down the years, tilted Nathan off balance. The mere knowledge that someone thought well of him, cared: it was not a concept Nathan would have allowed himself. He wouldn’t have considered that his absence left a hole for anyone. Perhaps he didn’t want to imagine he’d caused unhappiness or pain. Or perhaps . . .
‘Did you not think your family would miss you, when you left?’
‘Miss me?’
His confusion made her look for a double meaning in her own question. His off-key responses had her constantly reappraising, reconfiguring where to go next. Nathan often took words literally. That, and the apparent OCD, made her think briefly about the spectrum and the possible need for a diagnosis before trial. If it came to that.
‘I don’t mean would they notice your physical absence. I mean, would they miss you emotionally, do you think?’
It was apparent from his delay that this wasn’t something he’d considered. In fifteen years of solitude and reflection he clearly hadn’t entertained this notion at all. Dana found it bizarre. How could he be so certain they were glad he was gone? Even if he was sure his parents hated him and wanted him gone: at some point, surely he’d consider the possibility that they missed him?